Busman's holiday
by allofmyheart
Summary: Alex and Gene go on a working holiday to Spain. Drama, romance, UST and I hope some humour. I've tried to keep this fairly true to the TV characters as I see them. Please let me know if you like it.
1. Chapter 1

It was a Sunday afternoon in February. Gene Hunt lay in the bath, cigarette in one hand, sports pages in the other, a glass of whisky resting on the edge of the tub. He showered during the week, of course, but this long hot soak on a Sunday was a weekly treat, a rare sensual pleasure in his life and a chance to forget anything that was weighing on his mind.

Except that today, it wasn't working. Although he was staring at the paper, he couldn't concentrate; his mind kept going over the contents of his meeting with the Superintendent the previous Friday. Gene had been given two unwelcome orders, and although he had argued about both of them, the Super had insisted, and it had been irking him ever since. With a resigned sigh he dropped the paper onto the bathroom floor, reached for the glass and took a sip of whisky. Rolling it around his mouth, he let his mind return to the subject of their conversation.

The first order had been bad enough. "Studies have shown, Gene," the Super had said, "that police officers who don't use their full leave allocation are not as effective and focused at work as those who do. All work and no play, eh? Everyone needs a holiday! Now, there are several members of your department" – he glanced down at the file in front of him – "who have not used up their leave for this year, and you are one of the worst offenders, Gene! You've hardly taken any leave at all. I want you to try to get them all to take some time off before the end of the leave year, and I want you to set an example. That way they'll know they can follow! Book yourself a holiday, Gene. At least a week, maybe more. You've only got until the end of March."

_Bollocks. __What do I want a holiday for? _He'd quite enjoyed holidays with his missus, in the old days, before their marriage had gone sour, but the thought of spending time away on his own was just appalling. He'd be bored to death and – though it was a word he never used, not even to himself – lonely. And not going away, just spending a week mooching round his house, would be even worse. He couldn't contemplate that. _Typical Super. Some stupid new report comes out and we've all got to jump through bloody hoops._

But it was the other piece of news, the one about Stephen Lane, that really made him angry. Just thinking about it now made his gut clench: it was so wrong, so bloody unfair…

_Stop it__, _he told himself firmly._ You can't do anything about it. Just leave it now, think of something else. Think about something nice…_He reached out with his big toe and turned the tap to top up the bath with more hot water. Sinking lower into it, he forced his mind into more pleasant channels. A year ago, they would probably have involved some blonde Swedish film star and a bottle of baby oil, but for months now, whenever an erotic fantasy was needed, the image of Alex Drake had arisen in his thoughts. Which on one level was not a problem, because between what he'd glimpsed and what he could imagine, her body was enough to supply his fantasies for years to come… but on the other, thinking of her was not just a simple pleasure. Because his feelings about her were complicated, and far more than just physical, and when he thought about her, he always found himself ending up confused and frustrated.

_Bolly… _After the car bomb, back in October, she'd been quiet and troubled for several weeks and he'd been worried about her, but since Christmas she seemed to have put that behind her and returned to her normal self – as if you could _ever _call her normal, that is. He'd even managed to take her out to dinner a couple more times, although all he'd ever got for his trouble was "Thank you for a lovely evening" and a peck on the cheek. If she'd been any other woman he'd have given up months ago, but there was something about Bolly, though he was damned if he could say what it was. She infuriated him, attracted him, amused him, baffled him and made him horny as hell. Sometimes all at the same bloody time. At their best – well, at their best, they were good colleagues and almost friends. They worked well together, flirted, made each other laugh, looked out for one another. At their worst – he sighed. The thing was, it wasn't the screaming arguments, that wasn't the worst. He could cope with that. No, the worst times were when she withdrew again into her shell, became cold, uncommunicative, distant. It was times like that which made him realise just how much he'd miss her if she ever did follow up on those vague comments she sometimes made about 'leaving'. And that was something he really didn't want to think about.

He drained the last of the whisky and reached for the sponge, but just as he was about to apply the soap and start scrubbing himself, the thoughts clicked into place in his head. Yes, that was it: _that _was how he could kill three birds with one stone! He could obey the Super's stupid order about taking a holiday, do something about that bastard Stephen Lane, and maybe even make some progress with Bolly at the same time. Brilliant. _Pure Gene Genius, _he thought to himself, and a broad smile spread across his face as he scrubbed his back.

* * *

When Alex's alarm clock woke her on Monday morning, it was still dark. She reached out a hand to silence it and then huddled back into the cocoon of the duvet, unwilling to leave it and expose her flesh to the chill morning air. The heating in Luigi's flat really left a lot to be desired. Eventually, gritting her teeth, she slid out of bed, grabbed her dressing-gown and put it on as quickly as possible. Teeth chattering, she hurried through into the living room and lit the gas fire, then disappeared into the bathroom. Re-emerging, she seized an armful of clothes and went to stand in front of the fire as she dressed, holding out each item to warm it before she put it on. Then back into the bedroom to do her hair and makeup, one thought going round and round in her head: _If this is all happening in my subconscious, why does it have to be so damn cold?_

An hour later she was sitting at her desk, curling her fingers around a mug of tea in an attempt to warm them, when the door banged and Gene walked in, a couple of files under his arm. "Morning, boys and girls," he called as he strode across the room, apparently in an ebullient mood. "DI Bollyknickers, my office!" he added as he passed her.

_Don't bother to say 'please', will you? _Alex pulled a face at his retreating back, but got up and followed him into his office, closing the door behind her. "Yes?" she enquired. He turned to face her, standing with his back to the window, looking her up and down as usual.

"How's yer Spanish, Bolly?"

She blinked. "My what?"

"Spanish, Bols! You know, buenos noches, muchos grassy-arse, arrivederci! Spanish!"

"Arrivederci is Italian, Gene."

"Same bloody difference! Answer the question!"

"OK, OK! I got an A in my Spanish GCSE."

"GC wot?"

"O-level to you, Gene." She sighed. Honestly, never mind Spanish, sometimes just talking to DCI Hunt was like speaking a foreign language.

"Oh. Good. Well, go out and buy yerself some bikinis, you're taking a holiday."

Alex sat down in the chair facing him. "I'm sorry, I seem to have missed out on a large part of the conversation there."

Leaning back against the windowsill, Gene felt in his pocket for a cigarette, lit it, inhaled. "Superintendent says we've all got to use up our leave before the end of March. To make us more 'effective and focused'."

"Well, he's right, you know, all the studies show" –

"Don't you start on me! Firstly, he has ordered me to show an example and take some leave. Secondly, he has told me to stop chasing Stephen Lane." He slid a file across the desk to her. "An evil bastard who specialises in organising the trafficking of any commodity worth his while. He started with drugs, but then moved on to people. Girls. Young girls from North and West Africa, tempt 'em with promises of work or education abroad, smuggle 'em into Europe, they end up as prostitutes. Arab businessmen will pay a high premium for underage virgins… after that, they've lost their value. Wind up on these streets as common whores. Completely washed up at fifteen. No future, no family… when they should be still bloody children." The disgust in Gene's face and voice was absolute. "We've been onto him, collecting evidence, for the past two years. About nine months ago, he must have realised we were getting close to him, because he buggered off to his villa on the Costa del Sol and hasn't been back since. But he's still running the business, of course, doing the trade, from there. Still ruining lives. We started extradition proceedings, but on Friday, the Super told me they've been dropped. Apparently the 'powers that be' don't consider us to have a strong enough case. Not enough evidence." There was contempt in his voice. He left the window, leaned across the desk towards her. "Which is where we come in."

"What on earth do you mean, Gene?"

"I've looked at your file, Bolly, you've got loads of leave to use up too. Therefore, you and I are going on a little trip to Fuengirola. We obey the Super's directive about leave, find enough evidence to nail Lane, and get a stonking tan in the process. Fandabydozy, eh?" He flashed her a self-satisfied smirk.

"But you said he'd told you to _stop_ chasing Lane, not go and look for more evidence."

"Bollocks to that. I decide when to stop chasing someone, not him. And there's no way I'm giving up on a shit like Lane."

She decided to change tack. "That's all very well, but I don't see why it involves me."

"It involves you, Bolly, because you need to take some leave, you speak better Spanish than me, and as your superior officer, I am orderin' you to come with me!" Hmm. Was she going to buy that?

No. She leapt to her feet, incensed. "Gene, you cannot possibly give me orders on how to use my leave!"

Time for persuasion, then. He moved backwards and leaned against the window again, legs stretched in front of him. His eyes glinted. "I'm offerin' you a holiday, Bolly" he said more quietly.

As she opened her mouth to reply, Alex's gaze moved past him to the grey sky outside, from which sleet had now started to fall. She shivered. Suddenly, the prospect of some sunshine seemed very inviting.

"Oh, all right," she said.

* * *

That evening, Alex was sitting in her flat with a magazine when she became aware of Molly, sitting just on the edge of her field of vision, still and silent as always. She smiled gently; these fleeting glimpses of her daughter made her ache inside, but she still loved the chance to talk to her, although who knew whether Molly would ever hear?

She swallowed. "I'm going on holiday, Molls" she began quietly, still keeping the little girl in the corner of her eye. "Wish you could come… I know you'd love it. Sunshine… swimming pool… maybe the beach…" Molly made no response, just sat quietly watching her as she always did. Although these appearances were usually in the flat, Alex recalled that she had seen Molly in other places too. "Maybe you will come with me," she murmured. "Maybe I'll see you there." She longed for a response, any indication that her daughter could hear her, but as ever, it did not come.

A sudden thought struck her and Molly vanished in an instant, driven away by panic: _Oh my God, I don't even have a passport. _What the hell was she going to do? _Or do I…? _Although it seemed that she had been dropped into 1981 with no more than the clothes she stood up in – and even they weren't hers – she had later been astonished to find that, like Sam, she did at least have a police file, and a bank account. Her subconscious had provided her with the essentials that she needed. Maybe it would give her a passport as well. _Now, where would I keep it? _

She got up and opened a drawer. Yes, there it was, towards the back – a proper, old-fashioned, leather-bound British passport. Wonderingly she took it out and opened it. Her photo stared back at her – recognisably her, a few years younger than she was now, that rabbit-in-the-headlights expression that was mandatory for all passport photos everywhere - but with clothes and a hairstyle that she had never had. She leafed through the pages, feeling a weird sensation in the pit of her stomach as she saw stamps on the pages, evidence of holidays that she had never taken: Italy, Portugal, Tunisia. Shaking her head, she pushed her confusion to the back of her mind. It didn't matter. What mattered was that she had a passport. She could go to Spain… with Gene Hunt.

_Just how and why did I agree to that? _A few months ago, she would have been sure that they could not spend a solid week in one another's company without killing each other. She'd found him everything she expected from Sam Tyler's notes: arrogant, thoughtless, prejudiced. Gradually though, she had come to respect him as a policeman – most of the time – and more than that, to appreciate the other aspects of his character. He was clever, frequently funny, charming, sometimes even kind, but most of all, he was always, reassuringly, _there. _ She had come to rely on him more than she cared to admit.

They'd forged a good working relationship, and that was that, she told herself. She put his persistent come-ons down to his character – that was just how he was, he couldn't have a woman around without making suggestive comments. The fact that he kept inviting her out for dinner had made that slightly harder to believe: it did suggest that he wanted to take their relationship further, but she had no intention of allowing that to happen. Apart from the whole issue of getting back to 2008, which now seemed increasingly vague and distant, there was professionalism to consider. Having an affair with a colleague would be hugely complicated and potentially disastrous. And in any case, she told herself firmly, all that was simply immaterial because he was quite definitely not her type, and she didn't fancy him at all.

She was _almost _certain about that.


	2. Chapter 2

**I was in such a hurry to post the first chapter that I forgot the important stuff:**

**Firstly, big thanks to RedSkyAtNight76, my invaluable beta reader and general creative consultant, for all her input.**

**Secondly, Alex and Gene, regrettably, do not belong to me. Nor, in case I forget to say so, do the song lyrics coming up in Chapter 5.**

**Thanks to everyone who has given positive reviews - I do love encouragement! This chapter is a bit on the short side but please stick with me - they get better :-)**

Three weeks later, they landed at Malaga airport in mid-afternoon. It was hot, unseasonably hot for the Costa del Sol in March. _My subconscious must be over-compensating, _thought Alex.

Mindful of the need to get to odd places quickly while following Stephen Lane, Gene had hired a car from the airport. He'd never actually driven on the 'wrong' side of the road before – on their package holidays, his wife had only wanted to lie on the beach and he'd been content to follow suit – but after all, how hard could it be? Alex was white by the time they reached the hotel.

When they had checked in, Alex glanced at her watch. "The hotel's got a pool, hasn't it? Time for a swim before we head out for dinner."

"You go right ahead, Bols."

She raised her eyebrows. "Not swimming, Gene?"

"There is a poolside bar. I intend to confine my activities to propping it up. See you there."

Ten minutes later, he was doing exactly that, changed and with a beer in his hand. Truth be told, he hadn't even packed a pair of swimming trunks. The mere thought of Bolly in a swimsuit was enough to get him halfway to a hard-on, and he really didn't trust his body not to betray him if confronted with the real thing. He was looking forward to seeing it, though.

Alex emerged wearing a scarlet one-piece costume which seemed to be designed expressly to flatter her long legs and feminine curves. It had straps which crossed over between her shoulder blades, and revealed quite a large part of her lower back. Gene ran his eyes over her in appreciation, watching as she dived into the pool with barely a splash and quickly completed several lengths of effortless, racing-style breaststroke. He'd just _known _she'd be a good swimmer, he thought rather grudgingly. Probably had a nice private pool at that posh girls' school of hers. Not like him… He shivered slightly at the memory of the Manchester municipal baths of his youth… cracked Victorian tiles, cold footbaths… he'd learnt, of course, and later had quite enjoyed a dip in the pool on holidays not unlike this one, but that was as far as it went. He was glad he wasn't exposing his workmanlike front crawl to her scrutiny. Another reason not to be in there with her.

Alex paused after twenty lengths of the small pool, panting slightly. It felt good to be getting some exercise again. Back in 2008, in her old life – no, her _real _life, she corrected herself hurriedly – she'd gone to the gym and the pool regularly, determined to keep herself in shape. Here, all that seemed to have gone out of the window, in favour of long nights swilling wine in Luigi's. _I must get back to this, _she thought.

Her eyes lighted on Gene, standing at the bar. He was wearing a pair of off-white chinos and a short-sleeved shirt with a rather loud pattern of red, orange and white. Suede loafers, she noted, and those ridiculous Ray-Bans. She couldn't help smiling: he looked so ludicrously 1980s. Although, a small part of her brain acknowledged, not half bad: those trousers certainly flattered his legs and bum. _Good Lord Alex, stop it. Where did that come from?_

Not examining her motives too closely, she swam in a leisurely fashion to the end of the pool nearest Gene, and began to play like an otter in the water, practising tumble turns, diving to the bottom and up again, pausing to float on her back. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him watching. She rested her arms on the side of the pool. "Sure you won't come in? Honestly, it's lovely, you don't know what you're missing."

_Oh yes I do. I think about what I'm missing every bloody day. And right now it's being paraded in front of me, __and I don't know if I'm angry or I just want it more… _For a moment he gave in, allowed himself to imagine running his hands over her wet skin, the taut curves of her thighs… _Flamin' Nora. Definitely right not to bring the trunks. Pull yourself together, Hunt, we've got work to do._

* * *

After her swim Alex went to shower and change, and reappeared in the early evening, ready to go out. She was wearing a wrap-around Indian cotton skirt, a halter top and strappy sandals, rather lower than her usual heels, and carried a straw bag over her shoulder and a cotton jacket on her arm. She looked casual yet effortlessly elegant. Gene couldn't believe how good she looked. He moved over to greet her, inhaled: perfume too. God, she was practically edible. _Get a grip._

"Finally finished tarting yerself up, have you? Come on, I'm bloody starving." And with that he swept through reception and out into the street.

"Gene, wait!" She caught him up and hissed, "We're supposed to look like a couple, aren't we?"

"Oh… yeah." He offered her his arm and she linked hers through it. The feel of his skin brought her up short a little: she wasn't used to Gene in short sleeves. For some reason she felt very aware of what was under her hand: the muscular forearm, the soft, golden hairs… She swallowed. _Pull yourself together, Alex._

The hotel was just a short walk from the bars and restaurants along the seafront. It was not high season but reasonably busy; they wandered through other holidaymakers, inspecting the various hostelries. Gene stopped in front of one: the signs proclaimed 'English Pub' and on the menu, chips featured heavily. Alex, in holiday mode, looked a little pained. "Do we have to? It's not very Spanish…"

"In case it has escaped your notice, Bolly, we 'ave not come here to talk to the bleedin' Spanish! We are supposed to be talking to British people, most notably those of the criminal fraternity who may have an idea what Lane is up to. Anyway, at least in 'ere I can expect to get a decent pint."

They ate steak and chips and tried to chat to the other people at the bar, but they were all tourists. "This is no good, Gene," muttered Alex quietly after a while, "we need somewhere where the ex-pats hang out. The ones who live here all year, or six months at a time. They'll be the ones who know Lane."

"Mmm. Barman might know where to find them."

"Look, we can say that we're thinking of moving out here ourselves and we want to talk to some of the people who already live here, find out about the lifestyle, that sort of thing."

As usual when she came up with a good idea, he didn't say much, just gave a curt nod. They wandered over to chat to the barman, trying Alex's angle, and he suggested a couple of bars they might try. It was too late to move on anywhere else tonight, though, so they went back to the hotel.

Gene couldn't stop himself taking surreptitious glances at Alex as they walked; she looked simply stunning. It made him walk three inches taller, having a woman like that on his arm. Lately he had had cause to wonder what had happened to the Gene Genie he used to be in the 1970s, that supremely confident being, Sheriff of Manchester, God's gift to women… His self-belief had been shaken deeply over the past couple of years. Losing Sam, his wife leaving him, moving to London and finding himself a small, increasingly outmoded cog in a large, impersonal machine - each event had left another dent in his self-esteem. When Alex arrived, it had seemed like she was part of that process: constantly questioning him, challenging his authority, taking delight in proving him wrong. No wonder he'd been so angry with her; at times, he still was. But sometimes, when they cracked a case by working together, or when she believed in him even when he doubted himself… on those occasions, she made him feel good about himself. And if it was possible that she could become the woman who was on his arm for real, not just for the sake of an undercover operation - well, then, maybe, just maybe, she really could be the means of restoring his self-belief.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning dawned with the promise of a hot day. After breakfast, Gene settled himself on a sun lounger by the pool and removed his shirt. In deference to Spanish temperatures, he wasn't wearing a vest. This was the life, he thought, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his body. The sun lounger was in a perfect spot where he could sit, ostensibly reading a Wilbur Smith novel but surreptitiously watching Alex as she swam up and down the pool. Yes, life was good.

As Alex rested, breathless after her twenty lengths, she saw Gene: shirt off, barefoot, trousers rolled up. She had to suppress a giggle: he was such a holiday cliché. _Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised to see a knotted handkerchief. _She climbed out of the pool, picked up her towel and straw bag and walked over to him, towelling herself dry. Gene looked her up and down appreciatively: he could take a lot more of the sight of her in that swimsuit before he got bored of it. As she got nearer though, a new and unfamiliar feeling swept over him: self-consciousness. What if she was doing the same to him? He was suddenly, horribly aware of his slight beer belly. Quickly, he plonked his open paperback on top of it as she sat down on the lounger next to him, and sought to distract her with a comment.

"Careful, Bols. You keep powering up and down the pool like that, you'll end up with muscles like Johnny Weissmuller."

She smiled, searched in her bag and pulled out a bottle of sunblock, which she began to apply to her arms and legs. She'd bought the highest factor she could find in the shops of 1982, although it was woefully inadequate by 2008 standards. Lucky that she tanned fairly easily. She glanced at Gene; his skin looked extremely fair, and as though it hadn't seen the sun for a long time. His shoulders were already beginning to turn pink. "Gene, are you wearing sunblock?"

He snorted. "Course not. That stuff's for women and poofs."

"Don't be ridiculous Gene, here, have some of mine, you're already starting to burn."

"'S normal, that. Always go red, first couple of days on holiday. Be all right after that."

"It's not normal, it's reckless! Have you _any idea _what sunlight does to your skin? The ultraviolet rays actually destroy the DNA and lead to cell death -"

"Look, did I ask for a biology lecture? Leave me alone."

Alex was not to be deterred. "Gene, in twenty years time the rates of skin cancer will have trebled, and it's all because of people doing this, now! Letting yourself get burned is the _worst _thing you can do, it _hugely _increases the risks -"

Gene had had enough. Beautiful she might be, but if there was one thing he hated it was being lectured, especially by women. "I said leave me alone! Now stop being an interfering cow and mind your own bloody business!"

"Fine! Burn to a cinder, then!" she spat back at him. She picked up her towel and bag and flounced over to another sun lounger some distance away, where she settled herself, took out a book and began to read, determinedly not looking in his direction. Gene was left feeling that he had won a rather hollow victory.

* * *

Showered and dressed, she met him in the hotel lobby when it was time to head out for lunch. He offered her his arm and they walked into the town in stiff silence. His shirt today, Alex noted, was green and blue and rather more tasteful than yesterday's.

Only when they reached the first bar which the barman had suggested to them last night did professionalism get the better of personal pride. They ordered some rather overpriced food and began to play their parts of holidaymakers keen to move out to the area, chatting to as many people as possible. Both soon realised that they were in the wrong place: the clientele here were upper-middle class, tennis-playing, blazer-wearing types. Gene said as much as soon as they sat down to eat.

"Bloody useless here, Bolly. Full of sodding Rodneys and Rogers. I'm not saying they're not as crooked as Lane, but they made their dodgy money by cheating the taxman, not by supplying underage tarts. They're not going to know him."

Alex had to agree, and they left quickly after eating. "Right" declared Gene as they headed back through the town. "Time for some surveillance. We know where Lane's villa is, let's head up there and see what we can see. Better change into yer jeans first though – there might be some crawling around in the undergrowth." His bad mood had dissipated to the point where he allowed himself to wiggle his eyebrows suggestively with that last comment. Alex ignored him.

Lane's villa was some distance away, set up in the steep hills behind the town. The combination of the narrow roads, hairpin bends above steep, sheer drops and Gene's driving was truly terrifying. Alex clung to her seat, white-knuckled, but knew better than to say anything: it would only make him drive faster. She wanted to close her eyes but Gene was relying on her to interpret the information from the file on how to find the villa. She felt clammy and slightly sick by the time they finally drove past it and Gene parked the car a short distance away, around the next bend, out of sight. He looked at her without sympathy. "You ready?"

She took a deep breath, reached into the straw bag and hung a camera around her neck. Next she pulled out a floppy-brimmed straw hat and put it on. Gene regarded her with extreme distaste. "For Christ's sake, can't you try and look a bit more professional?"

"Gene, quite apart from my not wishing to get sunstroke, may I remind you that if we are discovered spying on Lane's villa, we need to pretend to be lost tourists. The very _last_ thing I need to look is professional! Which is why _you_" - she was fishing in the straw bag again – "as well as having _these_" – she handed him a pair of binoculars – "need to carry _this_" – she thrust a book at him.

"Jesus, you're worse than Mary bleedin' Poppins, 'ow much more stuff have you got in there?" He glanced down at the title of the book, then smirked. "_Birds of Europe_, eh? A subject I'd love to study in more depth, Bolly."

"Shut up, Gene." She wasn't in the mood. They left the car and walked back down the road a little way, before leaving it and heading off into the rough dry grass and rocks that covered the hillside behind the villa. They managed to find an outcrop of rocks behind which they could sit, shielded from both the road and the villa, and settled down to wait.

It was hot and tedious and after an hour, both were feeling bad-tempered and uncomfortable. Then came the sound of a vehicle approaching: a large black Mercedes came up the road and swept up to the front of the house. A tall, spare man with receding hair got out and walked to the door. "That's him, the bastard," hissed Gene, and she nodded. Lane went into the house and, although they sat there for another two hours, they saw no other activity that afternoon. Then, stiff, sweaty and itchy from grass and insects, they headed back into town. The journey back was just as terrifying, but at least Alex could close her eyes this time.

* * *

Another 'English' bar; another menu heavy on chips. At least this one looked rather more promising; the ex-pat clientele were more mixed, more working-class, and could easily include various types of criminal. Gene and Alex divided and worked their way around, chatting, listening. They ate together whilst listening to a lengthy monologue from a regular on the evils of the trade union movement, then divided again. Gene was soon embroiled in a cluster of men at the bar, drinking, laughing uproariously, telling each other smutty jokes.

Stuck with a crowd of women, Alex was not having such a good time. Most of them were second wives, trophy wives, all big hair, fake tan and gold jewellery. Alex was soon tired, of their vapid, materialistic conversation, all bitchiness and Breville appliances. Most of them did not have children, but when she started chatting to those who did, she felt even worse. The pain of her separation from Molly was suddenly sharp again, acute, a yawning hole inside her. She couldn't even explain to anyone how she felt. She glanced over at Gene, apparently the life and soul of the party, and felt abandoned and resentful. Was this how he used to treat his real wife on holiday? Probably, she thought bitterly.

What seemed like hours later, he finally came over to her and they set off back to the hotel. As they reached the quieter part of town he asked "Well, Bolly? Find out anything useful?"

"No," she replied shortly. She was past anger now, just too tired and miserable to care.

After a short silence, Gene continued in sarcastic tones, "Yes, thank you for asking, I did find a few blokes who know Lane, or know of him. But nothing to the purpose. Don't think they knew much about his business dealings."

"Mmm." Alex just wanted to go to bed, curl up into a ball and sob for her lost daughter.

Gene glanced at her unresponsive face, the downcast eyes, and gave a heavy sigh. This was not going how he had hoped. He thought back to his objectives for coming here: nail Lane, make some progress with Bolly, and get a stonking tan. Well, they didn't seem to be getting anywhere fast with the Lane enquiry, and today things seemed to have gone backwards with Bolly: they'd done nothing but bicker all day and now she'd gone off into one of her distant moods. As for the tan, well, he hated to admit it but perhaps she'd been right – much of his skin was now radiating heat, red, inflamed and painful. _Huh. Nought out of three so far. Bloody brilliant._


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for all the lovely reviews, hope you continue to enjoy!**

Alex cried herself out, slept, and awoke feeling cleansed, calmer. Another brisk swim after breakfast sent the endorphins coursing round her body, and by the time she climbed out of the pool to join Gene on the sun loungers, she was feeling positive again.

Gene had done some reflecting overnight and decided that he'd played it badly yesterday. This time when she finished applying her sunscreen he leaned forward and asked "Can I 'ave some of that?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Changed your mind then, Gene?"

"You know me, Bolly. Always willing to learn from your superior knowledge and expertise."

She snorted. "Yeah, right," she replied, but smiling. Gene picked up the bottle and leered at her. "So, going to rub it in for me?"

"Oh, grow up, Gene."

"Ah, come on, Bols, look, I can do me front and me arms" – he was rubbing the lotion in as he spoke – "but I can't do me back, can I? Please?" he added as he reclined the sun lounger and rolled over.

Alex wasn't sure that she'd ever heard Gene say 'please' before. "Oh, all right, give it here." She decanted some of the lotion onto her hands, then perched on the edge of Gene's sun lounger and began to apply it to his back and shoulders. At first she felt very tense and self-conscious running her hands over him, but soon couldn't help enjoying it. His shoulders were broad and muscular and she explored them with her fingertips, working the lotion into his skin. Up to his hairline and then down his back, fingers on either side of his spine… "Ooh, yeah, that's nice," growled Gene in appreciation; his voice brought her sharply back to herself. _Good grief, Alex, you're only rubbing sunblock in, not giving him a massage! _"Right, you're done" she said rather briskly, quickly leaping to her feet. She returned to her own sun lounger, trying hard to give an impression of normality, and hurriedly picked up her book.

Gene lay face down, still slightly surprised that she'd actually consented to his request. He'd savoured every moment of her touch, blanking out his mind to drink it in, and his body had responded eagerly. He groaned inwardly. _Bugger._ He was going to have to stay on his front for quite some time now.

* * *

They returned to last night's bar for lunch, as it had seemed to offer the best contacts so far. It was quiet, and inwardly, Alex was glad: she was in no hurry to see those women again. It was soothing just to sit and chat with Gene over lunch, though she did wince slightly at the gusto with which he tucked into his egg and chips. There was no-one there who knew Lane; the most they got was a suggestion of yet another bar to try that evening.

After lunch they stood on the esplanade, leaning side by side against the railing, looking at the beach.

"Well, Bols, seeing as so far we've got about as many leads as a recently burgled pet shop, there's nothing for it but surveillance again. Back to Lane's bastard villa."

_Oh God,__ not that road again_, though Alex._ Well, nothing else for it…_She snaked an arm round Gene's waist, running both hands down over his hips, looking up at him through her eyelashes, murmuring "Gene…?" Taken completely by surprise, he stood rigid with shock at the suddenness of her advances. Shock was replaced by desire: he started to turn towards her, slipping his arms around her, bending his head to hers… "Yes…?"

Quickly she thrust her hands into both his hip pockets, found the car keys and skipped away from him with them clutched in her hand. "I'll drive," she said lightly, her smile maddening.

"Drake!" he roared, infuriated and frustrated, "come 'ere!" He went to snatch them back, but she was too quick for him, just out of reach. "Drake!" he yelled again, without quite so much conviction this time. He could have caught her easily enough, twisted her arm up behind her back, forced her to give over the keys, but he didn't really want to hurt her. Anyway, he told himself as he followed her grudgingly back to the hotel, it wasn't as though it was his car. He didn't really mind if she drove. What he minded, he thought grumpily to himself, was how easily he had been duped for a moment into believing that she really did want him.

That afternoon there was no sign of human activity at Lane's villa. After an hour and a half of waiting, Gene said, "Sod this. Let's nip down there and have a root through his bins."

"Gene, there's an eight-foot wall around the whole place and electric gates."

"Nah, you give me a leg-up and I'll be over there, no problem." She looked at him sardonically. "Or vice versa, of course," he added quickly.

Alex surveyed the villa through the binoculars. "No go, I'm afraid, I've just seen a Dobermann. Two Dobermanns, in fact. I don't fancy our chances of getting out of there with our arses intact."

"Oh, bugger."

So they sat for another hour with nothing to see, until Gene got thoroughly fed up and called a halt. His sunburn was bothering him too, not that he was going to admit it. He considered venting some of his frustration by insisting on driving back into town, but decided against it; he didn't want to argue with her again. He consoled himself by smoking all the way back and mentally promising himself an extra whisky.

* * *

That evening they tried the new bar. It was up a back street in a rather unsavoury area of the town. Alex frowned as they went in. "Someone with as much money as Lane isn't going to drink in a dive like this, is he?"

"Probably not, but there'll be lesser scum around here who could know about him or his dealings."

They were sitting side by side eating gammon and chips when Gene suddenly went very still, like a dog that has seen a rabbit. Alex followed his gaze across the room. "What?"

He didn't reply, just got up and walked quietly across to where a small, nondescript, rather hangdog-looking man was leaning against the bar with his back to them. He bent down and murmured in the still unsuspecting man's ear: "Well, well, well. Charlie Riley."

Charlie Riley thought he must be having a bad dream. There he was, minding his own business, when a voice from the past made him almost drop his pint. He turned around and there was the face that went with it, grinning at him with all the friendliness of a piranha.

He swallowed. "Mr Hunt," he managed.

Still smiling broadly, eyes glinting dangerously, Gene clapped a hand on his shoulder and gently but firmly steered him to a quieter corner of the bar. "Charlie," he said in a voice dripping with cheerful menace, "how nice to see you here. What a surprise."

"I, er, live 'ere now, Mr 'unt."

"Do you now, Charlie? And what can you tell me about what goes on round here?"

The man gulped again. "What goes on? Can't tell you owt. Mind me own business, me."

Gene's grin grew still wider. "Charlie, you've never minded your own business in your life. What do you know about Stephen Lane?"

"Lane?" For the first time, Riley looked even more scared than he was of Gene. Then he carefully rearranged his features into blankness. "Never 'eard of 'im."

Gene leant close to him, murmuring. "Like I said, Charlie, big surprise to see you. In fact, there must be quite a lot of your old friends who'd like to see you here. Or anywhere, really. I bet they'd just _love_ to get back in touch with you."

"Now, Mr 'unt," Charlie stammered nervously, "all that's over, now. I'm retired. Don't cause any trouble to anyone."

"That's great, Charlie, and I'm sure that's the way you'd like to keep it. Now, remember," his voice dropped even lower, "I could let those old friends know where you are, easy as winking. I could make your life not worth living. Or indeed, quite possibly, I could just make you not alive."

Charlie didn't say anything, just stared at Gene, pale and sweating.

"OK, Charlie, I can see that I have your attention. Good. Now, I want to know about Stephen Lane. I want to know what he's up to, who he sees, what he does. I want to know about any deals going down. And I want to know quickly, Charlie. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Come on now, Mr 'unt, be reasonable…"

Gene's face was inches away from Charlie's now, his grip still vice-like on the smaller man's shoulder. "Tomorrow, Charlie, Same time, same place. I'll see you here." Gene gave him another genial clap on the shoulder, turned on his heel and strode back to Alex.

"What was all that about?"

He sat down beside her, leaned back, reached for his pint and took a long gulp. "Charlie Riley," he informed her. "Knew 'im in Manchester. Small-time, fairly useless blagger, big-time snout. Could never keep his nose out of other people's business. Very useful to us, back in the day, which made him _persona non grata _with many of the criminal fraternity who he turned in. Eventually it must have got too hot for him, moved out 'ere to get out of their way. Still," he took another pull at the beer, "leopard can't change his spots. Loves to know what the big boys are playing at, does Charlie. If anyone can tell us about Lane, it's him. I've given 'im until tomorrow night."

"You think he can come up with something?"

He wiped his mouth. "Best chance we've got."

Gene felt considerably better as they walked back that evening. Seeing Riley had been an unexpected piece of luck; now, he thought, they might be getting somewhere. He'd had a few whiskies and felt pleasantly drunk. As he bade goodnight to Alex and watched her walk down the hotel corridor to her room, his eyes lingered on her round rump. Very nice. Maybe tomorrow he could return the favour with the sunblock.


	5. Chapter 5

**Important stuff: thanks to RedSkyAtNight76 for continued fantastic beta-ing and comments, and to Lucida Bright for giving me the confidence to go where I am going with this fic. And thanks to everyone who has left positive reviews, I really do thrive on encouragement!**

**Regrettably I own neither Gene nor Alex, nor any of these song lyrics. I wish I did.**

_As a morning routine, I could get to like this, _thought Gene as he watched Alex once more climb nimbly out of the pool and head towards him, towelling herself off. He wasn't getting through the novel very fast, but it wasn't top on his list of concerns. This time when she'd finished with the sunblock he picked it up without asking, proceeded to cover his chest and arms and then rolled over, holding it out and simply asking "Would yer…?"

Alex took the bottle somewhat gingerly. She could hardly refuse after the way she'd lectured him about using it, but felt embarrassed and confused at the way she'd got carried away yesterday. She applied the lotion briskly and efficiently, leaving him disappointed at the briefness of her touch. Not a good day to offer to return the favour. Disgruntled, he rolled back on to his side and continued his clandestine appreciation of her body. Of course, he saw her every day at work, but the view of those long legs, unencumbered by clothes, was something else. He gazed unhurriedly down them to her feet: another new pleasure. They were shapely, already turning brown, and she'd painted her toenails burgundy. Gene didn't think he'd ever had the urge to kiss a woman's feet before. Suddenly as he lay there he knew exactly what each and every one of those toes would feel like as he took them into his mouth. He stifled a groan. He felt like a little kid outside the sweetshop, nose pressed against the window, looking longingly at the delights within.

* * *

They found a different bar for lunch, and sat opposite one another. It was hot, the ceiling fan turned lazily and they both felt a bit sleepy. Gene lit a cigarette and leant back in his seat, arms behind his head, as they waited for the food to arrive. His shirt today was plain white, with red stitching on the buttons.

"Right, Bols, I've had enough of that bloody villa. Didn't the file say something about Lane having a yacht?"

Alex frowned, trying to remember. "I think so… yes, that's right. It's called _Lady Johanna _and it's moored down in the marina at Puerto Banus. Just a short drive along the coast."

"OK, that's our afternoon sorted. Let's see if he spends his time there instead."

"Mmm, all right…" Alex looked lazily around the bar, until lighting on something in the corner. "Ooh look, a jukebox!" She found her purse and rummaged in it for loose change, then went to peruse the list of songs.

Gene watched her idly, enjoying the hips swinging beneath her cotton skirt. When she returned she was beaming, eyes shining. "I love this song! I haven't heard it in years."

He wondered what rubbish she'd put on. Then the cracked tones of Marianne Faithfull filled the bar: _"The morning sun touched lightly on the eyes of Lucy Jordan…" _ Well, not what he'd expected, anyway. Alex sat with her eyes closed, smiling, singing along, as the volume swelled for the chorus_: "At the age of thirty-seven, she realised she'd never ride through Paris in a sports car, with the warm wind in her hair…"_

"Bloody hell, I realised that a long time ago. Daft bint." Gene's comment broke abruptly into her reverie.

She pouted at him. "Have you no romance in your soul, Gene?"

"Nope." He exhaled smoke.

"Well, shut up and leave some enjoyment for those of us who do." She closed her eyes again, listening… "_She could clean the house for hours or rearrange the flowers…" _Alex had never had the luxury of being a bored housewife, always a working mother. She'd put nearly all her time and energy into being efficient and professional, but just occasionally, in rare moments on her own, she'd allowed herself that yearning for romance and escapism… _"So she let the phone keep ringing, as she sat there softly singing, pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorised in her daddy's easy chair…" _Alex felt a sudden chill around her heart. She had sat in her daddy's easy chair, on his lap, eight years old, as he read her stories. _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_, every night for a week_. _And then he'd tried to kill her.

Gene saw Alex's expression change and his heart ached as he looked at her stricken face. He wanted to reach out and put his hand over hers, tell her everything would be all right. _Don't be stupid,_ he told himself._ That's not my place. And even I can't make everything all right for her._

_I wish I could._

Alex still had her eyes closed as the song ended. _"On the roof top where she climbed when all the laughter grew too loud…"_ Sam had climbed on to the roof top, and jumped off. A leap of faith._ "At the age of thirty-seven, she knew she'd found forever…" I don't know what I've found. There's a lot that I'm afraid I've lost. Can you really find forever? Did Sam? _She took a deep breath. _Good grief, it's only a bloody song. Get a grip on your self, Alex. Anyway, I'm not thirty-seven yet. _She looked up, solemn but back in control.

Gene stood up, patting his pockets for change. "Let's see if there's any decent music on that thing." He strode off across the bar. As he returned, the strains of Glen Campbell began to play: _"I am a lineman for the county, and I drive the main road…" _Alex smiled. Somehow it seemed right that he'd like country music. Particularly something like this… the lone hero, servant of the people, out there in all weathers, doing his job, day after day… She looked to see his expression, but it was unreadable. Whatever the song meant to him, he wasn't letting anybody see.

Had she but known, she was pretty much right, not that he'd ever analysed why he liked it. He liked country, and it was a manly song, that was all… _Bugger. _ He'd forgotten the end. Now it was his turn to flinch inwardly, although there was barely a flicker in his face. _"And I need you more than want you, and I want you for all time…" God knows I want you, Bolly. And I think I might need you as well, and that really worries me. But am I ever going to get you? _He watched her, seeking yet again for some clue of what she though of him, whether he was ever going to get anywhere, but found no answers. He was glad when the song ended and his next selection began. _"Jolene, Jolene, Jolene Jolee-eene, I'm beggin' of you, please don't take my man…" _Hmm. That was better. Terrific voice and a great pair of, er, lungs on her. At least you knew where you were with Dolly Parton.

* * *

After lunch they drove down to the playboys' resort that was Puerto Banus. Huge luxury yachts and cruisers jostled side by side in the harbour, gleaming white, smoked glass cabins, chrome rails blinding in the sun. Upmarket bars and fashion boutiques lined the surrounding streets. Alex was fascinated, getting tantalising glimpses in the shop windows as they passed: new, up-and-coming designers like Versace and Jean-Paul Gaultier. _I could give them a few tips on their future direction, _she thought.

"When you've quite finished lookin' at frocks like some airheaded tart, Drake, we do 'ave some work to do…"

They strolled around the marina until they found the _Lady Johanna_, a sizeable, expensive-looking cabin cruiser. Luckily, there was a small harbour-side café where they could sit at an outside table and have a good view of the vessel. Gene looked pleased. "This is the way to do surveillance, eh? Beats itching yer arse off in that grass up behind the villa. Beats sitting in some freezing car for hours with Chris farting away next to yer…" Sipping appreciatively at her coffee, Alex had to agree.

After about twenty minutes there was activity on Lane's boat: a man, Spanish by the look of him, emerged from below with several rubbish sacks, and walked with them down the gangplank onto the pontoon that led to the quay. As he deposited them there he was accosted by a similar-looking man from the boat with which the _Lady Johanna_ shared the pontoon, and a heated argument ensued, accompanied by much gesticulation. Alex got up and wandered idly to the quayside, pretending to admire the vessels, the better to hear what was going on. The protagonists were speaking quickly and colloquially and it was hard to follow, but she got the impression that the way the staff on Lane's boat disposed of their rubbish often blocked the gangway and caused inconvenience to the staff of the other yacht; also, that this was just one of a catalogue of complaints about the habits of Lane's staff. _Not much love lost there_, she thought. _Could be useful_. When the man from Lane's boat had disappeared she approached the other man and had a short conversation with him in competent Spanish.

Gene raised an eyebrow at her when she returned to the table. "Been practisin' yer conversation skills?"

"_I _have been finding out things, thank you very much. Things like: Lane is living on his boat at the moment. Various people come and go, often North Africans. When he's here, he parks his car in an underground car park for the boat owners, just over _there." _She pointed. "He's got a reserved space. Could be useful if we ever have to follow him."

Gene nodded. "Good work, Miss Marple," he replied with only slight irony. "Shame yer coffee's gone cold."

Half an hour later, they were still sitting there when Gene looked past her and muttered "Hold up." Lane was walking along the quayside, accompanied by a smaller man of North African appearance; they were deep in conversation. Quietly Alex picked up the camera which was sitting on the table and took several photos of the two men as they approached and then went onto Lane's boat together. They had already agreed that it was important to record anyone with whom Lane had meetings. She was able to take some more when the smaller man reappeared some twenty minutes later, but Lane remained on the boat and they did not see him again that afternoon.

Eventually they had to leave Puerto Banus and head back to the bar in Fuengirola where they had met Charlie Riley the night before. They ate chips and waited. "What if he doesn't turn up?"

Gene took a drag on his cigarette. "He will."

Sure enough, after half an hour Riley arrived, looking nervous, and headed for the back of the bar as before. Alex watched as Gene followed him, talked to him, his body language proclaiming quiet dominance over the smaller man. She wondered what Gene was threatening him with. Then she wondered why that thought didn't bother her as much as it would have done a few months ago.

Riley scuttled off as soon as Gene let him. Gene bought himself another pint and settled back next to Alex, looking pleased. "Well?"

"Lane's got a consignment of girls coming through on Saturday. Crossing on a small boat over Friday night, fetching up somewhere down the coast past Gibraltar. Someone goes down in a van, picks 'em up, brings 'em up here to a haulage depot off the main road, where they get transferred to a container lorry to take 'em up through Europe. Transfer should be happening some time Saturday evening and Lane will be there to see it all goes smoothly. And inspect the quality of 'is merchandise, of course." Gene sounded disgusted. He took a pull at his pint and looked directly at Alex. "This is it, Bols. Our opportunity. We tail Lane, get some pictures of him with the girls as they're being transferred, no-one can say he's not involved." He sniffed. "Let's see the Super and all the rest of them call _that _'not enough evidence'."

They chatted a bit more about the details, finishing their meal. Both felt mildly elated: meeting Charlie Riley and getting his lead seemed an almost unbelievable stroke of luck. Later they wandered back to the hotel, pleasantly drunk. Alex smiled up at Gene and said, "Well. Miss Marple and Jack Regan. We didn't do too badly between us today, did we?" Gene looked at her for a moment, and then suddenly laughed at the comparison. It was his real belly laugh that she didn't see very often, doubled over, face lit up in a boyish grin. It was attractive and infectious, and together they laughed all the way back to the hotel.


	6. Chapter 6

Another morning; another bright, hot day. The combination of sunshine, exercise and the previous day's breakthroughs gave Alex a sense of well-being as she climbed out of the pool, so much so that she smiled at Gene as she walked over to him. "Morning."

She was still slightly surprised when he returned her smile. "Morning, Bols. Day off today."

"What?" She pulled out the bottle of sunblock.

"We've got what we need to know, we can 'ave the day off. Do whatever you like."

"Shouldn't we carry on watching Lane? He might have some more visitors." She rubbed the lotion into her legs.

Gene pursed his lips, considering. "Look at it this way. If we can get photos of him with these girls tomorrow, then we've got enough to nail 'im, fair and square. If we can't, well, a couple more pictures of him chatting with dodgy blokes aren't going to make any difference, one way or the other."

"I suppose not."

"So, might as well 'ave a good time, eh?" He took the bottle of lotion, applied it to his arms and chest, rolled over. This time she did his back without him even asking. That was a good sign, he thought. "Need your back doin', Bolly? As you appear to have a great gaping hole in the back of that swimsuit…"

_You're so transparent, Gene. _"That's why I don't lie on my front." _Oh, where's the harm? _"But, since you're offering…" She rolled over, stretched her arms above her head, presented her back to him. _Now we're getting somewhere, _he thought as he applied the lotion gently. More gently than she expected, she realised. _Mmm, nice. Softer hands than you'd think. Must be because he wears those gloves so much…_ Lying on her front, she studied him surreptitiously from behind her sunglasses as he lay reading. OK, bit of a belly, but there was something very inviting about that broad chest and thickset neck…_Funny, I always preferred hairy chests before…Before what? What's changed? Alex, what on earth are you thinking?_

* * *

He met her in the hotel reception, as usual. Today's shirt was navy, with a small pattern of silver-grey dog-tooth check. _Mmm, best one yet,_ thought Alex. _Stop noticing his bloody shirts._

As they walked into town for lunch, Alex's stomach revolted. "Gene, if I see another chip I am going to vomit. Come on, you said we can do what we like today. Can we find somewhere that does real Spanish food? Please?"

"Like where?" He looked at her with some suspicion.

"Oh, I don't know, there must be somewhere…" and with that she took his arm and pulled him away from the seafront, up a little side-street. Sure enough, five minutes' walk had brought them to a modest-looking, traditional restaurant tucked away off a small square.

"Here, this looks nice," she said, and went inside. He followed her reluctantly, sat down opposite at her and studied the menu, shooting her a filthy look when he discovered it was all in Spanish. Not wanting to make an issue of it, she quietly translated as she read through it. He ordered a steak anyway, although disappointingly, they didn't seem to do chips.

Alex chose _fideua _and sighed appreciatively when it arrived, steaming and fragrant, prawns and big chunks of monkfish in the noodle-filled broth. Gene just enjoyed watching her eat it. It was good for a bird to have a healthy appetite. When she'd finished she wiped her mouth on her napkin, said, "That was fantastic," and ordered a dessert. _Good. _Gene felt a bit out of his depth, but he wanted her to have a nice day today_. _He sipped his coffee and carried on observing.

Alex was somewhat disconcerted by the steel blue eyes on her. "What?"

He shook himself, realising that he'd been caught looking, and resorted to grumpiness. "What is that muck, anyway?"

"_Natillas_. Cinnamon custard. It's lovely, look, here, try some…"

She scooped up a bit on the end of her finger and held it out to him. He was momentarily nonplussed, but then took it in his mouth and sucked greedily at it. Realising too late that it was not the food which was eliciting his enthusiasm, she pulled her hand away with a sigh of exasperation, but not before he had managed to run his tongue deliberately over the fleshy pad at the end of her finger. An involuntary tingling ran through her body and she looked down in some confusion.

"Very nice, Bolly, very nice." He waggled his eyebrows at her.

_Honestly, give him an inch and he'll take a mile. Ignore it Alex, you have to ignore it._It was harder to ignore her own response. _Just physical. Doesn't mean anything, Deep breaths, Alex. _She finished her dessert.

"So, like I said, day off. What d'yer fancy doing this afternoon?"

"Well… there's a Moorish castle …"

_Damn. She's chosen sight-seeing. Gene Hunt doesn't do sight-seeing. Oh well, as long as she doesn't tell Ray and the rest of them…_

They paid up, then walked along the sea-front to the castle. It was ruined and deserted; she wasn't sure if they were even really allowed in, but it wasn't difficult to scramble through the broken fence that surrounded it. She wandered around happily, pointing out bits of the architecture, recalling snippets of knowledge about the Moors, the Crusades, Ferdinand and Isabella…Gene followed in her wake, ribbing her about her private education, secretly quite enjoying it. Sight-seeing wasn't so bad when one of the more prominent sights was Bolly's bum as she clambered over the ruined walls… More than that, he actually didn't mind her rabbiting on. He didn't give a toss about the Moors or any of it, but he liked the way her face lit up when she talked about something she found interesting.

After that, they went back to the hotel and Alex had another swim while Gene propped up the bar again, until it was time to shower and change for the evening. They found a bar they hadn't been in before – not upmarket, but pleasant and quiet. They had a snack and shared a bottle of wine. And another. Free of the need to spend the evening conversing with strangers, Gene's glance wandered to the table in the corner. "Play pool, Bolly?"

She smiled. "Unfortunately, that's one area where my hideously expensive education was sadly lacking."

"Always said you didn't learn anything useful. C'mon, I'll teach you."

And he did, gently showing her how to hold the cue and line up a shot, although the sight of her bending over the table was almost too much for him. She was an apt pupil and almost beat him in the third game, when he lowered his guard too much. That awakened her competitive spirit and she didn't want to stop. Eyes alight with the desire to win, she giggled and teased him mercilessly, trying to get him to make a mistake. Gene could have watched her all night. Eventually he let her win a game, just so they'd get back before midnight.

Relaxed and content, they walked unhurriedly back to the hotel. The night was warmish, starlit. Every evening they had walked arm in arm to keep up the semblance of a couple, should anyone be watching, but now Alex slid her hand down his arm, took his hand instead as they walked. _It's just more comfortable, _she told herself. _Doesn't mean anything. OK, it feels nice, but that's just because we're…friends. That's all._

_It really does feel extraordinarily nice and I absolutely don't want it to stop, but that's just because we're…friends. Really._

Gene felt her hand nestled in in his, small and warm, like a child's. The feel of it there did something to his insides. It was more years than he cared to remember since he'd walked hand in hand with anyone and it should have felt stupid, but it didn't. He walked in silence, savouring the contact with her, the occasional wafts of her scent. Glancing sideways at her face he could see her half-smiling, her eyes shining. She looked incredibly beautiful. Just to be next to her made him feel as though every nerve in his body was singing.

They didn't break the contact as they reached the hotel, walked through reception, into the lift, out into their corridor. There she turned to face him, looking up at him, eyes huge, still smiling. "It's been a lovely day," she said quietly.

"Yeah. It has." His voice was quiet, low. Her eyes, her scent were pulling him in, he felt like he was drowning in her and he willingly surrendered. He'd wanted this for so long. He slipped his hands around her waist, pulling her towards him, mouth moving down to find hers, so gently…

At the last moment she turned her head so that the kiss connected with her cheek. She stepped backwards, looking up at him, smile too bright. "Big day tomorrow, Gene" she said, a little breathlessly. "Good night." She squeezed his hand briefly, turned and went to her room.

Gene watched her walk away down the corridor, his happiness disappearing like a bursting bubble. He felt suddenly weary, sick with disappointment and rejection. _Oh, Jesus Christ. Bloody impossible bloody woman. How much more of this do I have to take?_


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks to all for lovely reviews - I'm loving it that people are really getting involved with this story!**

Alex didn't go down to the pool the next morning, but remained in her room, reading through the file on Stephen Lane. She wanted to get all the information and background material fresh in her mind, she told herself. She couldn't deny, though, that she was also somewhat uncomfortable about meeting Gene after the events of last night, and wanted some time on her own to sort through her thoughts and feelings.

She sat on her bed and opened the file. She was familiar enough with the scenario. The Spanish colonial territory of Western Sahara was racked with civil war, fighting for independence from Spain while itself being fought over by rival claims from Morocco and Mauritania. Mauritania too was politically unstable, the military government struggling to keep power while facing opposition from a guerrilla resistance movement. In such chaotic circumstances, corruption was rife and it was always the poor who suffered most. It was not surprising that people would grab any chance of a way out. Facing no prospects of prosperity or education in their native lands, the young girls were easy pickings for the people traffickers. Agents would go out to the countryside, to the villages, with promises of opportunities in Europe: college education, modelling contracts, glamorous jobs. Even working as a maid in London seemed an attractive and lucrative prospect to girls whose families were struggling to feed them at home. Some families – Alex felt sick at the thought – were so desperate that they would willingly sell their daughters to the highest bidder…

_You did the right thing, Alex. OK, so you do find him attractive. Can't deny that any longer. Kind too – good company – yesterday was lovely. A lot of it's been lovely, even if he does drive you up the wall occasionally…but no. Can't go there. Can't get involved with a colleague – unprofessional. Can't get involved with anyone in 1982. Above all, can't possibly get involved with Gene Hunt – he'd think he owned me –couldn't possibly work with him under those circumstances. Did the right thing. Move on. Read the file…_

Once the girls had been located, they'd be brought up through Morocco to the coastal ports and smuggled into Europe. Sometimes false documents would be procured for them: passports in 1982 were frighteningly easy to forge or alter, and minors could travel on an adult's passport without any identification of their own. Sometimes they'd merely sidestep the border controls, sending them across the Straits of Gibraltar at night in small fishing boats to wash up on the deserted beaches beyond Algeciras. There, more traffickers would pick them up, arranging transport hidden in the cabs or containers of freight lorries until the girls finally arrived in the capitals of northern Europe. There they would find not the promised employment, but sex slavery: locked up, frequently beaten, their documents confiscated, promised their freedom only when they had 'earned' it through prostitution. Gene had mentioned Arab businessmen, but Alex knew that depressingly, there were many men of all races and walks of life who would pay high prices for underage virgins. Eventually the girls would be thrown out of the brothels to find themselves friendless on the streets of London, Paris or Amsterdam. Taking their chances with the local pimps and low-life, many of them turned to drugs and were dead before they were twenty. She remembered the way Gene had spoken: his disgust and disdain for the exploitative men like Lane who ran the trade.

_Stop thinking about Gene. I did the right thing. _

_So why do I keep wondering what it would have been like to kiss him…?_

Their plan for today was to keep watch on Lane at his boat and tail him when he left it. The girls were expected in the late afternoon or early evening, but Charlie Riley hadn't been able to find out exactly where they were going to be transferred onto the lorry. The traffickers probably didn't decide until the last minute, so they needed to follow Lane and then observe and hopefully photograph him at the transfer point.

_I wish I'd let him kiss me…_

Eventually Gene knocked on her door. One glance at his face told her that he was angry about last night. His eyes were hard, his jaw set. "Are you comin' or what?" he barked at her, and set off down the corridor with her trailing in his wake.

They drove to Puerto Banus in silence, Gene glowering behind the wheel. He'd had such high hopes of this week and after the rocky start, it had seemed to be going so well; they'd really been getting on together. Last night had just seemed like the perfect moment and he'd acted on instinct. Her rejection had left him wounded and confused, and he reacted in the only way he knew: anger. Anger at himself for taking the step that had mucked things up, anger at her for hurting him. _Stupid bloody impossible woman. Green light one minute, red the next. I've had enough of it. _Resentment seethed within him.

Inevitably, his reaction raised Alex's ire. _So you're going to have a hissy fit just because you didn't get your leg over. Great. Typical bloody alpha male, it's all about your pride, isn't it? Well, grow up and learn to deal with it, Gene. Didn't want to kiss you anyway._

_Much._

They located Lane's Mercedes in its underground car park and managed to park close to the exit, then returned to the small café which overlooked his boat. Still communicating monosyllabically, they sat, ordered drinks, and waited. Gene smoked one cigarette after another. The sky was overcast today, the atmosphere hot, humid, oppressive. The waiting seemed to take forever. Alex felt the beginnings of a headache throbbing around her temples.

In the middle of the afternoon Lane's tall shape appeared on the deck of his boat; he stood, leaning on a rail, smoking a cigar, for a quarter of an hour, then went back inside. Still they waited, until at last in the late afternoon he emerged again and walked purposefully towards his car. They followed at a distance and went to their own car, able to pick up Lane as he left the car park and tail him discreetly as he drove through the town and out towards the main road.

He drove along the coast for nearly an hour, finally turning off the main road near the outskirts of Malaga. Through a run-down industrial area, they came to a large freight yard, piled high with containers and full of parked-up lorries. There appeared to be no guard on the gate: he'd probably been given a bung to stay out of the way. Lane drove straight through the gate and towards the far end of the yard. Gene parked their hired car near the perimeter fence and they followed cautiously on foot, moving quietly between the rows of containers. All personal feeling was forgotten now as they concentrated solely on what they did best: their job.

When they caught up with Lane he had got out of his car and was speaking to another man: unshaven, dressed in jeans and a faded T-shirt. Alex and Gene crept as close as they could and Alex began to take photos. Not too close or they might be seen, the click of the shutter heard. Lane and the other man both lit cigarettes and stood, waiting, near one of the lorries.

More waiting: another half hour. Alex felt tense with anticipation, stiff from standing still, trying to stay hidden in the lee of a container. The light was fading from the sky as evening approached, but the yard was lit by tall floodlights, creating bright pools of light and deep shadows.

Eventually there was the sound of a vehicle and a small white van entered the yard and drew up near the two men. The driver got out; he was the man of North African appearance whom they had seen with Lane on his boat. He exchanged a few words with the other two and then moved to the back of the van and unlocked the rear doors. Slowly, half a dozen girls emerged, unbending themselves stiffly from the cramped space within. They huddled together, illuminated by a floodlight, tired, thirsty, their faces bewildered, eyes glazed. Five were of North African appearance, Arab or Berber; the fifth was black, from further south, perhaps Nigeria. None of them looked older than about twelve or thirteen.

The small man barked something at them and they shuffled into a ragged line, silent, fearful. Lane went to the first one and seized her jaw roughly, forcing her head up so he could look at her face. Then he moved on to the next, and the next, down the line, evaluating them as though they were cattle. Gene felt sickened as he watched. _The evil, callous bastard._

He became aware that Alex was no longer next to him: she was moving quietly between the containers, trying to get closer. He realised that from their present position Lane had his back to them: she needed to move round so she could photograph his face while he was with the girls. He could see her now, edging along by a container a couple of rows away. _Careful, Drake. _He knew why she was doing it but his heart was in his mouth as he watched her; even without personal feelings, she was a colleague taking a risk. She raised the camera; he could see she was in the right position now. She took picture after picture as Lane moved down the line of girls. Then the girls were led towards one of the lorries and the driver opened the back of the container. Alex guessed it might have a secret compartment within, although even if it didn't, closed containers were rarely checked by customs. She just hoped that there was enough air and water inside there to keep them alive until they reached their destination.

The girls climbed inside, the door clanged shut and the lorry driver went to his cab. Alec took more photos of the lorry as the engine started and it pulled out of the yard. Lane and the man who had driven the van started to walk back to their vehicles, still talking.

It was then that it happened. Moving further backwards into the shadows, her foot kicked a stone, which hit the container next to her: a metallic rattle rang out through the yard. Instantly the two men looked in her direction, then headed towards her. Lane shouted, "Who's there?" He was nearer now, approaching the gap between the containers where Gene knew Alex was hidden in the shadows. _Shit_. _If he finds her there with a camera he'll kill her…_

Alex watched Lane approach, mouth dry, heart thumping in her throat. She tried to shrink further back, scared to move too much in case the movement was visible or she made another noise. He was close, almost at the end of the gap between her container and the next one, he was going to find her… _Oh God oh God…_

From his hiding place twenty feet away Gene stepped out into the yard, into the light, shouting, visible, distracting the two men. They wheeled round, yelling, confused, and suddenly there was an earth-shattering crack as the smaller man pulled out a gun and fired at Gene, once, twice. Lane turned on his colleague and shouted at him, something about being stupid, an idiot, _get out, get out_! Both men ran to their vehicles, leapt in and drove away, wheels spinning, showering dust and pebbles into the air, as Alex emerged from between the containers. She could see Gene lying on the ground, clutching his shoulder: shaking, panicking, she ran to him and flung herself to kneel next to him. Looking into his white face, she saw his eyes glazing as dark blood seeped through his fingers, staining his shirt, dropping onto the white dust of the yard.


	8. Chapter 8

**Because of all the lovely reviews I had for the last chapter, and also because Lucida asked nicely, you can have Chapter 8 a day early! You'll just have to wait longer for the next one though...**

Never before had Alex cursed 1982's lack of mobile phones as she did then. Her first instinct was to phone for an ambulance, but she didn't know where the site office was and she didn't want to leave Gene. He was conscious but in severe pain, slipping into shock. As far she could tell, the bullets didn't appear to have punctured a lung, but he was certainly losing a lot of blood and needed to get to a hospital as soon as possible. Quickly she decided that she was going to have to take him there herself.

"Gene? Gene! Listen to me! Listen to me, stay with me! I need you to get up…" her training kicked in as she spoke to him, urgent to get through to him in his shocked state. Taking his good arm she helped him to a sitting position and then took some of his weight as he got heavily to his feet, hissing at the pain in his shoulder.

"Good, Gene, good, now, I need you to walk... come with me…" Thank God his legs were OK, but he looked at her blankly as she led him back to the car, and the blood stain was still spreading across his shirt. _Oh God, let me get him there in time…_As they reached the car, the weather finally broke and big fat drops of rain splashed around them in the white dust of the yard. Once he was in the car she drove as fast as she could back to the Malaga ring-road. It was dark now and the rain was pouring down. With the windscreen wipers on full, she desperately scanned each road sign she passed: there must be a hospital, surely it would be signposted… Oh yes, there it was. 'HOSPITAL'. Thank God it was the same in Spanish as English. Relief swept over her, followed by renewed worry as she glanced at Gene sitting beside her, his eyes closed, breathing ragged, his face tight with pain. _Please don't let it be far…_

It seemed like hours but was only minutes before they were there and she was helping him into A&E, where the nurse on duty took one look at him and called for assistance. Before Alex knew it he was on a trolley and being whisked away down a corridor, out of her sight. It was at that point that her own shock kicked in and her legs almost gave way beneath her; fortunately another of the nurses realised her state, led her to a chair and brought her a cup of strong coffee. The hospital staff watched her sympathetically; only after twenty minutes, when they could see she felt better, did they approach her. They led her to the loos to wash off the smears of blood from her arms and face, then, speaking to her gently, they started to take down the details they needed for Gene's hospital admission. Alex was glad at least one of them spoke good English: her Spanish seemed to have all but deserted her. Haltingly she gave his details, realising how little she actually knew about the man with whom she'd spent most of her waking hours for the last nine months. She didn't even know his date of birth. A tiny part of her brain wanted to tell her that that was because he was just a construct of her imagination, but that didn't feel true any more. This life, this reality, this brightly-lit hospital all felt vividly and horribly real.

Gene had lost a lot of blood, the hospital staff explained to her; he needed a transfusion, and to be taken to surgery to examine the wounds and remove any lodged bullets. She'd guessed as much. She sat in the A&E waiting area, under the fluorescent lights, watching the comings and goings caused by a typical Saturday night in Malaga, feeling numb, detached from the scene in front of her, her thoughts only with Gene. _Will he be OK? He should be OK… lost a lot of blood though… _For the first time, she faced the possibility of a life in 1982 without Gene, and was shocked by the prospect. She'd always viewed everything as a package, Gene part and parcel of the strange world she had found herself living in, and her rejections of him had been at least partly based on the idea of rejecting the whole of 1982 and getting back home. The thought of continuing to exist here, in a world without him in it, was a bleak and frightening one. The others were OK in their way – Chris, Ray, especially Shaz – but she didn't have anywhere near the depth of relationship with them that she had with Gene. He was her colleague, her team-mate… even when she argued with him, her emotional connection with him was far deeper than any other she had in this world. OK, there was Evan, but seeing him, relating to him was complicated and problematic, especially now that he had charge of her younger self. Here, now, in 1982, Gene Hunt was her best, and almost her only, friend.

Eventually, at about 11pm, the hospital staff led her upstairs, to a secluded bay at the end of one of the wards. Shortly afterwards Gene was wheeled into the bay, unconscious, still attached to his blood transfusion and a saline drip. The surgeon, a good-looking man in his mid-thirties, followed and took Alex aside to speak to her. He had good English.

"He has been very lucky. One bullet passed through the flesh of his arm, right through. The other one stopped against the bone, up here," - he indicated on his own arm – " by the shoulder. We have taken it out. But he has no broken bones. The bullets did not hit the big artery in his arm. If they did…" he shrugged and made a gesture, "I think he would not have got to us in time. He is a lucky man." Alex nodded, feeling tears of relief starting to rise, unable to say anything.

"He will sleep now," the surgeon continued, "he must rest. The nurses, they will check him. You will stay with him?"

"Yes."

The surgeon nodded. "It's good. But, _Senora_," he spoke more quietly, "this was a shooting. I have to tell the police. They will want to speak to you, to take information."

_Oh shit. Yes, they will. _It was the first time it had occurred to Alex; thoughts of Gene had been the only ones in her head. Now she realised just what a complicated situation they were in: Gene injured, abroad, carrying out police work as a vigilante while supposedly on holiday. _The Super is going to go spare…_The surgeon looked at her, concern in his face. _"Senora, _I see you are tired, you have shock. I make the police wait until later. Tomorrow, maybe the day after. You rest now." He and one of the nurses steered her to a chair near to Gene's bed, and when the nurses had finished making him comfortable she was left alone with her thoughts in the subdued lighting of the night-time ward.

She felt drained, exhausted, yet unable to sleep; the adrenaline that had kept her going all evening had not left her body. She stood up and went to look at Gene, lying there asleep, his breathing now deep and regular. The tears of relief stung her eyes again as she listened to it. She studied his face, peaceful now, taking in the strong jaw, the scarred skin… there were splashes of blood still on his face and in his hair. That wasn't right. She reached into her straw bag for a handkerchief, wetted it and gently wiped away at the crusted blood until there was none left. Then she found a comb and combed his sweat-tangled hair until it lay straight again around his face on the pillow, a lion's mane, an angel's golden halo. It felt a curiously intimate thing to do. He shifted restlessly under her touch, without waking, and she soothed him, murmuring "Shhhh…" When she had finished she looked down at him once more; she ran her thumb gently over his brow, his hairline, and then bent down and dropped the lightest of kisses where her thumb had been. He moved again and then smiled - not his usual grin or smirk but the little, shy smile that she had only ever seen once or twice – then stilled and slept peacefully. Alex returned to her chair and slept too.

* * *

The chair was uncomfortable; after the first hour or so she woke, and then slept fitfully, alternately dozing and waking. A nurse came to check on Gene every half hour, but in between times it was very quiet. As Alex drifted in and out of sleep in the small hours of the morning, she gradually became aware of Molly in the corner of the room. A lump came to her throat as she watched her silent daughter out of the corner of her eye. _I've missed you, Molls…Didn't expect to see you here, though…_

A sudden thought struck her, brought her up short. What if Molly was at this very moment doing what she was doing, sitting, watching by a sleeping figure in a hospital bed? What if, back in 2008, she was the one lying there, motionless between the sheets? After a few moments the voice of reason took over: _If I'm in a hospital bed, then I've got a reasonable chance of getting through this. It's if I'm still lying dying in the bottom of a boat that I need to worry…_Cold fear gripped her at the thought that she had absolutely no control over what might be happening to her in that other world. With an effort of will, she put the thoughts away from her, concentrated on the here and now. Here, in 1982, she had to think about Gene; the last few hours had made her realise just how much she needed him, and, in his present state at least, it looked like he needed her too. _Got to be here for him… _She dozed off again, listening to his breathing, and the next time she awoke, Molly was gone.

* * *

Hours later again and it was beginning to get light; the sky showed greenish through the windows of the ward. Gene began to stir, shifting and muttering fitfully. Alex leapt up and went to him. He opened his eyes and tried to sit upright; looking into his face she saw confusion, pain, and something else: fear. It shocked her to see it there: he was never afraid of anything. It occurred to her that that was one of the best things about him. No matter what life threw at him – criminals wielding guns or knives, situations with hostages or ambushes, the prospect of discipline or investigation against him – he faced it all head on, squaring up to it without hesitation, determined to take it without backing down. But here, in this foreign hospital, injured, disorientated from the anaesthetic, the unthinkable had happened: he was afraid. Instinctively she put her arms around him, enveloping him in a hug, cradling his head to her shoulder. For a moment he resisted – even in his confused state he didn't want to show weakness – but then she felt him relax into her embrace. There was nothing sexual about it, just security and reassurance; warm, human touch, the oldest comfort known to man. It was what he needed right then, and, though he would never have admitted it to a living soul, Gene Hunt was grateful. After a minute he pulled back and looked at her weakly, recognition in his eyes, then settled and slept again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Big thanks to RedSky and Lucida for all their help with the end of this chapter.**

Around breakfast-time, Alex took herself off to the loo and for a general wash and brush-up. When she came back, she found the curtains drawn around Gene's bed; for a moment panic gripped her, but then she heard his voice and knew that he was OK. He'd obviously woken and the nurses were bustling around, making him comfortable. Alex waited until they were done, then the curtains were drawn back to reveal him sitting propped up on pillows, left shoulder heavily bandaged and arm in a sling. She approached, feeling suddenly awkward. Touching him, caring for him had seemed easy in the middle of the night when he was barely conscious, but now she felt as though all the barriers between them were back up. Then he saw her, and though he didn't exactly smile, his face relaxed; he looked relieved that she was there. Encouraged, she went to the side of the bed. "Gene… how are you feeling?"

"Bols." His voice was weak as he looked into her face. "I've been better…" He gave the ghost of a grin and she returned it. She moved the chair so that she could sit facing him. He frowned in thought. "I remember the freight yard… Lane and the girls… those bastards looking for you…" He stared into nothingness, trying to picture it. "Remember getting shot… not much after that. What happened?"

Briefly, Alex went over the events of last night and what the surgeon had said. Gene nodded, taking it in. "Always was a lucky sod," he managed. Alex couldn't reply: she could feel the tears starting again, relief choking in her throat.

There was a slightly awkward silence in which Gene stared at the bedclothes. Then he took a deep breath and looked at her. "Er… thank you," he said, sounding embarrassed but sincere. "For, er, getting me here. And for stayin'."

She swallowed, forced herself to speak. "That's all right," she replied. "You'd have done the same for me." She knew it was true. "And anyway, I should say thanks. For distracting them… if they'd have found me with that camera, they'd have killed me. You probably saved my life."

He shrugged lopsidedly, one shoulder not working. "Yeah, well… my fault for persuading you to come on this bloody escapade in the first place. Shouldn't have put you in danger like that…" his voice tailed away, eyes downcast. Then he recollected himself. "You got the pictures though, didn't you? Still got the camera?"

"Haven't let it out of my sight."

"Good girl." It was not patronising; his tone conveyed genuine approval.

"I memorised the lorry registration number as well. I'll let the police know soon – maybe they'll be able to stop them before they leave Spain, rescue those poor girls…"

"_Very_ good girl." He was looking at her with such admiration that she had to look down, embarrassed.

"Where are me clothes?" He was wearing light blue hospital pyjamas.

"In here, I think…" She found them in a bag in the bedside cabinet; the hospital staff had brought them up last night. "They're a bit of a mess…in fact they had to cut the shirt off you, I think… jeans might be salvageable…"

"Sod that. Shirt pocket. Find us a fag, eh?"

She found them and lit one for him without adverse comment, mostly because she could see that he hated having to ask. _Won't be able to do that in hospital in a few years, Gene. Enjoy it while you can._

"Thanks, Bols." She was touched again by his sincerity. He took a few drags on the cigarette and then said "Don't s'pose there's any chance of a cuppa to go with it?"

She smiled. "Well, as it's Europe, I don't hold out great hopes for a decent cup of tea, but I'll see what I can find. I could do with one as well." She got up and walked down the ward, more relieved than she could say that they seemed to be friends again.

* * *

She couldn't find tea, but brought back two cups of coffee and they drank them together companionably. Then he looked at her and said quite softly "You look rough as anything, Bolly. Why don't you go back to the hotel, get some kip?"

"What about you? Will you be all right?"

He gestured at the drips still attached to him. "I'm not exactly goin' anywhere, am I? Go on, off yer go. Oh, and if you could bring my stuff back… clothes an' that…room key's in my jeans pocket, I think…"

She smiled. "I might have known there was something in it for you."

"Course." He gave her a semblance of his old smirk. "Don't get too excited handling my underwear, now, will yer?"

"You're impossible, Gene Hunt," she replied, still smiling, still filled with relief. "OK, I'll see you later." She picked up her bag and headed outside.

She enquired at the hospital reception where to find the police station, went there and passed on the information about the lorry containing the girls. After arranging to come back the following morning to give a full statement about the shooting, she climbed into the car and set off back to Fuengirola. On the hour's drive she realised how tired and drained she still was; it was a huge relief to get back to the hotel, draw the curtains and crawl into bed. She slept, dreamlessly, for several hours.

In the mid-afternoon she woke and showered, then let herself into Gene's room and packed up all his things. It felt like prying and made her uncomfortable; in many ways he was such a private man. He didn't have much luggage: just clothes, toiletries, a book… She put them all into his case and took it down to the car. Realising that she was starving, she managed to buy a sandwich before setting off back to the hospital at Malaga.

She found Gene now free from his drips and enjoying the attention of his nurses; the surgeon had also been to see him and was pleased with his progress, though he had warned that it would be at least a week before Gene could leave hospital. Privately Alex felt quite relieved that it would be complicated for him to arrange to get home from Spain; she was sure that had he been injured in the UK, he would have checked himself out of hospital long before it was safe to do so. She sat by the side of the bed again, taking him in. He looked worse now than this morning; the anaesthetic had fully worn off and although he was on painkillers, she could tell that his arm was hurting him to some extent. Nearly two days' worth of dark stubble didn't help the overall picture. _Though on the other hand… kind of does something for him…dear God, how does he manage to look sexy even when he's injured? Good grief, what am I going to do about him? Well, nothing now, that's for certain…concentrate on the practicalities…_

"Gene, it's Sunday. I'm due to fly home tomorrow."

He nodded. "Yeah, I know. You do that, Bols. I'll be with you as soon as I can."

"Are you sure you'll be OK here?"

"Course I will. Anyway, can't leave Ray and Chris and the rest of them with no-one in charge any longer, God know what might happen. Wouldn't have a department to come home to." He smiled at her. "You go and kick their arses for me."

She grinned back at him. "OK, Guv." Then she became suddenly serious. "You know I'm going to have to give a statement to the police here? You will too, probably, in a day or too. And then I'll have to tell the Super what's happened to you."

He grimaced. "Yes, he might not be too pleased… still, you get back and get those pictures developed, that'll give 'im something to think about."

"Will do."

They chatted for a bit longer; after a while Gene swung his legs over the edge of the bed to get up. He winced and hissed as the movement made his arm throb with pain. Alex sprang to her feet. "What is it? What do you need? Can I help?"

He scowled at her. "I'm goin' for a piss, Drake, and much as I'd love to have your hand on my equipment, this isn't exactly the scenario I'd envisaged, so save it, all right?" He stumped off towards the bathroom. She watched him, smiling. Thank God he was still the same Gene. A little later she said goodnight to him and headed back for her last night in the hotel.

* * *

In the morning she checked out and drove to the police station in Malaga to make her statement. The police were polite and efficient and it didn't take long. Then she went back to the hospital to see Gene for a final time. She found him shaved, dressed and looking much better, although his arm was still bandaged and in a sling. They chatted for a few minutes, but soon the time had come for Alex to say goodbye.

Gene walked to the end of the ward with her, then stood facing her. She felt suddenly awkward, unsure what to do: should she hug him? Kiss him on the cheek? For some reason she hadn't the courage. Embarrassed, she found herself making light of it, taking his hand for a kind of comedy handshake. "Well, DCI Hunt, what a team we made! I think we should congratulate ourselves…"

"Alex." Gene's voice, although quiet, completely cut through her babbling, silencing her in mid-flow. It wasn't just that he hardly ever used her name; there was something in his tone as well. That was nothing to what he did next, however: still holding her hand, he raised it to his lips and imprinted a lingering kiss on the back of it, at the same time raising his eyes to look straight into hers. Something like an electric shock ran through Alex: adolescent flutterings coupled with a physical arousal that took her breath away. Her blushing face brought Gene back to himself: he dropped her hand, looking suddenly embarrassed. "Bloody hell," he coughed out, "only been 'ere a week and I'm acting like some Dago creep already."

Mouth dry, Alex forced herself to laugh. "Must be something they put in the water," she returned. Flustered, she tried to pull herself together. "Look, er, Gene, I've got to go…" She put her hand on his good forearm and gave it an awkward little squeeze. "Take care and get better soon, won't you?" She smiled a little timidly, turned and walked away. Gene watched her all the way down the corridor, his face intense.


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks to the speed and dedication of my lovely beta RedSkyAtNight, you can now have the tenth and final chapter. Thanks to all of you who have stuck with me this far!**

Alex arrived back to a cold, grey London and went straight back to her flat, unwilling to face anyone else that day. The next morning, however, there was no putting it off; she had to gird her loins, go in to work and tell everybody what had happened.

Speculation had been rife in CID at Fenchurch East once it had been noticed that the Guv and DI Drake had gone on leave at the same time, and especially when further discussion had revealed that both of them had, separately, made mention of going to Spain. Not surprisingly, all heads turned to Alex when she walked into the office on Tuesday morning. _Might as well take the bull by the horns, _she thought, and addressed the office at large. "Good morning, everyone. Right, I have an announcement to make…" Briefly she explained the investigation into Lane in which she and Gene had been engaged, and then told them about Gene's injury. When she had finished her explanation, the team stood, open-mouthed. Ray was the first to speak.

"Bloody 'ell, so, you were actually _working _out there?"

"Yeah, we all thought you were just sha -" Chris broke off quickly as Shaz gave him a swift kick under the desk.

"So, is the Guv going to be all right?" There was genuine concern in Ray's face.

"Yes, Ray, he'll be fine. He's got to stay in hospital for at least a week, though, maybe more, so he probably won't be back in work for quite some time."

_That's what you think, lady, _thought Ray to himself, but did not bother to voice his thoughts.

"Right then," Alex continued in a businesslike tone. "I'm going to get this film to the Photographic Department so that they can develop it as quickly as possible, and then," she grimaced, "I shall have to go and explain to the Super why Gene's not back. After that I'd like a thorough briefing on what's been going on here – Ray, will you be OK to do that?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Ray with assurance.

Alex did as she said, calling in to Photographic and then going to speak to the Superintendent. He looked rather bemused as she explained about Gene's plan to gather evidence about Stephen Lane, and his subsequent injury. He didn't say a great deal, just murmured things about 'most unexpected' and 'really very irregular'. At the end of the interview, though, he seemed to pull himself together and fixed her with a steely glare. "You haven't heard the last of this, you know, DI Drake," he said sternly. "I shall have to tell the Chief Superintendent about the matter."

"Yes, of course, Sir," she replied politely. Once dismissed, she stepped out into the corridor, leant back against the wall and heaved a heavy sigh. It seemed as though the problems might be only beginning.

* * *

On Thursday morning Alex received a summons to a meeting at 11am with both the Super and the Chief Superintendent. On her way there she called in at Photographic again and collected the photos. She was very pleased to see that they clearly showed the faces of Lane and all his associates, and the scene in which he was evaluating the young girls. Feeling that she had good ammunition, she went in to meet her superiors.

"Ah, DI Drake, sit down." The Chief Superintendent greeted her. Alex went straight to pull out the photos. "Sir, I just got these back, I believe you'll have to agree that they make quite compelling evidence against Lane -"

"Drake," the Chief Superintendent interrupted, "before you continue, there is something you should know. Stephen Lane was found drowned in Puerto Banus harbour yesterday."

Alex stared at him, open-mouthed, completely dumbfounded by this piece of news. Before she could think of anything to say, the Superintendent chipped in. "Yes. Of course it's not obvious yet whether his death was an accident or the result of foul play, but privately, it looks very much as though his criminal associates decided he was too much of a risk after your little interruption, and decided to get him out of the way."

"Rendering the evidence provided by these photographs rather irrelevant," continued the Chief Superintendent in a superior tone. "Which means, DI Drake, that we must move on to the main purpose of this meeting, which is to discuss the wisdom or otherwise of your taking part in DCI Hunt's little scheme…"

Alex did not enjoy the rest of the interview. The Chief Superintendent used words like 'irresponsible', 'rash', 'foolhardy' and 'reckless',. He made it quite clear that while such maverick behaviour was no more than could be expected from Gene Hunt, he was shocked and disappointed that Alex had consented to go along with it. He pointed out the dangers of ignoring standard police procedure, the negative publicity which might ensue if the press got wind of the affair, and the risks to personal safety, a matter in which, of course, circumstances entirely vindicated him. Alex would normally have argued vociferously, but the news of Lane's death had taken the wind out of her sails: now that there was no chance of bringing Lane to justice, it did begin to seem as though they had taken a stupid risk for no benefit. Indeed, as she sat mutely nodding and putting in the occasional "Yes, Sir," "No, Sir," she felt more and more as though the Chief Superintendent was right. What on earth had possessed her to agree to Gene's proposal, flying in the face of all logic and sense? It was a subdued and chastened Alex who made her way slowly back down the stairs to CID when the interview was over.

* * *

Having told the team all about the Lane investigation, Alex realised that she needed to let them know about his death. Unable to face standing up and addressing them all again, she simply called Ray over to her desk, told him and asked him to pass on the information.

Ray looked into her sombre face with uncharacteristic empathy. "Did that pair of tossers upstairs give you a bollockin'?" he asked.

"Yes, Ray, they did rather," Alex sighed.

Ray's ice-blue gaze held her own. "Listen, ma'am." She had rarely seen him so serious. "I remember when we were on Lane's case, before. 'E were a right bastard. I remember some of the girls 'e dumped on the streets an' all. You and the Guv did the right thing, goin' after 'im. Don't forget that."

"Thanks, Ray." She smiled at him rather weakly. _I really appreciate you saying that, Ray. I just wish I could believe you. Maybe…Oh God, I don't know. I don't know what to think any more._

* * *

The week seemed to drag by. Alex was in charge of the department, but there didn't seem to be anything pressing going on; she and the rest of the team spent a lot of time sitting at their desks, reading files or at least pretending to. Chris listened to his Walkman. All the time Alex was very conscious of Gene's empty, darkened office: it felt so wrong. The whole place just felt lifeless when he wasn't there. On Friday evening she was glad to escape, get a couple of bottles from Luigi to take upstairs, and spend the evening drinking herself into comfortable numbness. She spent the weekend mooching around her flat, trying unsuccessfully to distract herself with television. She couldn't help her thoughts returning time and again to Gene, yet at the same time, she felt foolish for having gone along with a scheme which had earned her so much castigation from her superiors, and a little angry with Gene for having persuaded her to go in the first place. Her growing attraction to him couldn't be denied any longer, but she was still very unsure what to do about it. All the reasons for not getting involved were still there: it would be unprofessional, unworkable and she was still supposed to be trying to get home, for God's sake! The conflicting thoughts and emotions went round and round in her head, never reaching a conclusion, until she was exhausted. On Monday morning she dragged herself into work feeling as though she hadn't had a weekend at all.

Monday was dull, grey and tedious, just like all the other days. It was almost time to leave when Ray came back from an errand, wandered over to Alex's desk and remarked "Guv's back."

"What?" Alex looked up, uncomprehending. "He can't be back yet, he'll barely be out of hospital!"

Ray gave her an old-fashioned look. "'E's back. Viv just saw 'im going up to the Super's office. Reckon they'll want to give 'im a bollockin' too."

By now the others had started to gather around, having overheard Ray mentioning the Guv. He looked around at the circle of interested faces, then glanced at his watch. "Come on," he said to the team in general, "let's get down to Luigi's and wait fer 'im there, 'e'll not be long." There was a general flurry of movement as they hastened to follow his suggestion. Alex stood in the middle of it all, a little nonplussed, but then shrugged, put her coat on and made to follow them. If she was going to see Gene again so soon, she'd probably need a drink.

* * *

Gene made his way slowly down the stairs from the Superintendent's office. The dressing-down he had received from the Super and Chief Super had been much what he had expected, but he still felt angry and resentful. If he hadn't been injured, if Lane had not died, then they would have been able to present some bloody good evidence against him and he was pretty sure that the irregular way they had gathered it would have been largely overlooked. It was only because it had gone wrong that they were able to get all righteous about it. He felt gutted and cheated about Lane, too: OK, being found face down in a harbour was no less than the bastard deserved, but Gene had really wanted to see him in court. _Bollocks. Time for a drink._

His mood was not helped by the discomfort in his arm. Bloody-mindedness had made him discard the sling which the hospital had insisted was still necessary, but now twinges of pain across his shoulder were making him begin to regret it. He really did need that drink. He headed past Viv on the desk, outside, down the steps of the police station and over to Luigi's. He hoped the team would be there – he would never have admitted it, but they were pretty much friends and family all rolled into one for him. And he really wanted to see Alex, although God knew how she'd react to him – her behaviour seemed to be different every time he saw her. At the top of the steps down to the trattoria he paused, took a deep breath and exhaled through pursed lips. Then he headed down the stairs.

As the familiar tall, black-coated figure appeared in the doorway a hush fell over the chattering team inside; one by one heads turned as they noticed him, bodies turning towards him… In the silence Ray started the clapping and immediately they all joined in, faces grinning, hands applauding in welcome: the familiar policemen's standing ovation. Gene remembered it from the old days, back in the Railway Arms, when one or more of the team had come in after an injury or a job particularly well done. "Like being drunk on meself," he'd said, when Sam had asked him what it felt like. It didn't exactly feel like that now – the case hadn't really come to a satisfying conclusion – but it meant a great deal to him to know that, whatever those tossers upstairs might say, his team was still one hundred per cent behind him. If he'd been a lesser man, it would have brought a lump to his throat. As it was he just stood there for a moment or two, taking it in, then grinned and strode across to the bar, as arms reached out to clap him on the back, shouting "All right, who's goin' to be the first to have the privilege of buyin' me a drink?" The biggest grin of all belonged to Luigi, who hastened forward exclaiming "Signor Hunt!" Alex, watching from a corner, smiled to herself. Luigi had been so concerned when she'd told him about Gene's injury; he really was like a mother hen to them all, and obviously delighted to see Gene back.

Alex herself hung back in the corner, still not sure what to say. In any case it was right to leave Gene to be feted by his old team, who crowded round him, talking, laughing, asking questions. She heard Ray expounding on Stephen Lane, Shaz asking after Gene's arm. Chris seemed intrigued by the fact that Gene had received Spanish blood in hospital. "So, does that mean you'll, er, start liking paella and talkin' foreign and that?" After about ten minutes though, Gene detached himself from them and came quietly over to her.

"Bols. How are you?"

"Oh, OK." Talking to him wasn't as awkward as she'd expected. "What about you? How's the arm? Shouldn't you still have a sling on?"

"'S fine." His tone was more abrupt than he intended, probably because the arm was in fact hurting him. Alex noticed and decided to let it go; she remembered what had happened last time she'd given him a lecture.

"So, did you hear about Lane?" she offered.

"Yes. Pissed off about that. I'd really have liked to see to see that bastard banged up." He looked bitter for a moment, distant. Then he looked back at her. "What did the Super say to you?"

She shrugged. "Much the same as he said to you, I imagine. 'Irresponsible', 'unprofessional', that sort of thing. Told me I should be ashamed of myself for my lack of judgment, going along with your hare-brained scheme."

"Hmmh." He gave a grunt of derision, but then realised that she sounded unsure, as though she half believed it. He caught her gaze and held it again, the dark-rimmed, grey-blue eyes burning into her like laser beams. "And what do you think, Alex? You saw those girls in that yard, saw the state they were in. Do you think it was irresponsible, trying to put a stop to that?"

She looked up into the burning eyes, the fierce, uncompromising face, and all doubt vanished. "Of course not," she replied, feeling an odd sort of relief at the realisation. How could she ever have doubted it? "No, of course you're right. It was worth doing anything to put an end to it."

He gave a small nod; he'd been momentarily shaken by the idea that she might have lost faith in him. Suddenly, it mattered a lot that she hadn't.

"And, Gene…" Her eyes softened and she laid a hand on his forearm. "It's good to have you back. Really."

He looked down at her hand and covered it with his own, then looked back to her face. "Thanks, Bols," he murmured.

Just then a shout went up from the rest of the team: "Guv! _Guv! _Over 'ere!" He glanced over to them, then back at Alex, and gave her hand a squeeze; she returned it, curling her fingers around his, and then he released her and headed back into the midst of the throng, who were now engaged in some drinking game. Alex sat sipping her wine and watching him, the blond head, the laughing face, in among his friends and colleagues, a wistful, slightly dreamy smile on her face. _Yes, _she thought serenely to herself. _Yes. If he tries to kiss me again, I might just let him._

THE END

**And there you have it, folks. I'll just stand back now and wait to be lynched for not ending with rampant, fluffy Galex... sorry but I just wanted have a slightly frustrating, ambiguous end such as you might have on one of the TV episodes. Would love to hear your thoughts on it!**


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